ago.
Except that Shanks could not have sold the Ballantyne Breguet at auction. Auction houses demanded provenance. He had not come by the watch legitimately. He had stolen it and so it had never actually been his to sell.
Lassiter frowned and looked at his own watch. He did so because the one which had belonged to Seamus Ballantyne was showing the correct time. Well, every stopped watch did that, as every schoolboy could probably still tell you. They showed the right time exactly twice every 24 hours. A moment later, when the minute hand stroked and he felt the movement purr with life inside its silver case, Lassiter almost dropped the living object cradled in his palm.
Mechanical life, he thought. The watch possessed only mechanical life. Someone had surreptitiously wound it and its two hundred year old innards were performing with robust health.But who had resurrected it? He thought the winding of the watch a joke too far for the frightened man who had directed him here. Perhaps Ballantyne’s chuckling old ghost had done it; Ballantyne, who gray and decaying would shuffle out of the shadows down there in a moment to retrieve his old boat cloak and so restore forgotten warmth to his dead flesh.
Lassiter put the objects carefully back into the chest. He did so alert to sound. He did so sweating and with hands that would not quite obey his mind in the way they fluttered, clumsily. The bracelet of teeth chattered like laughter when he put it back. The impression of being watched down there in the quiet depths of the building was so strong that he almost looked behind him, to where he sensed the scrutiny was coming from. But he didn’t. He ignored instead an instinct he knew only fear and not the fact of observation could have provoked.
The thing was, that the scrutiny he felt wasn’t merely curious. It wasn’t even particularly hostile. It felt more contemptuous than that. It seemed whoever studied him did so disdainful and almost amused. It made him feel frayed and naked, childlike and with a child’s trapped helplessness. He had the feeling of being toyed with.
It changed abruptly, this mood of whatever presence there secretly shared that ill-lit space with him. He felt a black shadow of spite and rage envelop and then clutch at him unwilling to let go. It was pure malevolence and it was engulfing.
Closing the trunk lid brought no relief. Locking it required an immense effort of will because his instinct, which police work had taught him to trust, insisted he should bolt for the door and safety without a moment’s further delay. Fuck dignity and decorum. So overwhelming did the danger seem to him by that point, he felt as though it oozed like a gleeful threat from between the flags and banners lining the basement walls.
He stopped feeling scrutinized, started once again to feel safe, only when he reached the vestibule. He saw that the shadows there had lengthened. Fortescue awaited him. There was a curious look on the keeper’s face.
‘How long was I gone?’
‘You were down there just under an hour, Mr Lassiter.’
‘Is it always like that?’
‘Did you get what you came for? Did you get your snapshot in time of Seamus Ballantyne?’
Lassiter said again, ‘Is it always like that?’
‘I can’t say. Not for certain. I only inventoried the contents of the chest the once. It was not an experience I’d choose to endure again.’
‘I didn’t steal anything,’ Lassiter said.
‘No one in their right mind would.’
‘You said the items from the chest have been photographed.’
‘That was done a long time ago, back in the 1950s. The pictures are black and white but very detailed. Whoever did the job was a skilled still-life photographer.’
‘Did he or she comment on the experience?’
‘I’ve no idea of who the photographer was. An agency was commissioned to carry out the assignment. Sygma, I believe.’
Lassiter nodded and peeled off the cotton gloves. They were slightly damp now to the
Except that Shanks could not have sold the Ballantyne Breguet at auction. Auction houses demanded provenance. He had not come by the watch legitimately. He had stolen it and so it had never actually been his to sell.
Lassiter frowned and looked at his own watch. He did so because the one which had belonged to Seamus Ballantyne was showing the correct time. Well, every stopped watch did that, as every schoolboy could probably still tell you. They showed the right time exactly twice every 24 hours. A moment later, when the minute hand stroked and he felt the movement purr with life inside its silver case, Lassiter almost dropped the living object cradled in his palm.
Mechanical life, he thought. The watch possessed only mechanical life. Someone had surreptitiously wound it and its two hundred year old innards were performing with robust health.But who had resurrected it? He thought the winding of the watch a joke too far for the frightened man who had directed him here. Perhaps Ballantyne’s chuckling old ghost had done it; Ballantyne, who gray and decaying would shuffle out of the shadows down there in a moment to retrieve his old boat cloak and so restore forgotten warmth to his dead flesh.
Lassiter put the objects carefully back into the chest. He did so alert to sound. He did so sweating and with hands that would not quite obey his mind in the way they fluttered, clumsily. The bracelet of teeth chattered like laughter when he put it back. The impression of being watched down there in the quiet depths of the building was so strong that he almost looked behind him, to where he sensed the scrutiny was coming from. But he didn’t. He ignored instead an instinct he knew only fear and not the fact of observation could have provoked.
The thing was, that the scrutiny he felt wasn’t merely curious. It wasn’t even particularly hostile. It felt more contemptuous than that. It seemed whoever studied him did so disdainful and almost amused. It made him feel frayed and naked, childlike and with a child’s trapped helplessness. He had the feeling of being toyed with.
It changed abruptly, this mood of whatever presence there secretly shared that ill-lit space with him. He felt a black shadow of spite and rage envelop and then clutch at him unwilling to let go. It was pure malevolence and it was engulfing.
Closing the trunk lid brought no relief. Locking it required an immense effort of will because his instinct, which police work had taught him to trust, insisted he should bolt for the door and safety without a moment’s further delay. Fuck dignity and decorum. So overwhelming did the danger seem to him by that point, he felt as though it oozed like a gleeful threat from between the flags and banners lining the basement walls.
He stopped feeling scrutinized, started once again to feel safe, only when he reached the vestibule. He saw that the shadows there had lengthened. Fortescue awaited him. There was a curious look on the keeper’s face.
‘How long was I gone?’
‘You were down there just under an hour, Mr Lassiter.’
‘Is it always like that?’
‘Did you get what you came for? Did you get your snapshot in time of Seamus Ballantyne?’
Lassiter said again, ‘Is it always like that?’
‘I can’t say. Not for certain. I only inventoried the contents of the chest the once. It was not an experience I’d choose to endure again.’
‘I didn’t steal anything,’ Lassiter said.
‘No one in their right mind would.’
‘You said the items from the chest have been photographed.’
‘That was done a long time ago, back in the 1950s. The pictures are black and white but very detailed. Whoever did the job was a skilled still-life photographer.’
‘Did he or she comment on the experience?’
‘I’ve no idea of who the photographer was. An agency was commissioned to carry out the assignment. Sygma, I believe.’
Lassiter nodded and peeled off the cotton gloves. They were slightly damp now to the
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